The Two Babushkas

The sun sets like a pomegranate over the grimy snow—outside Moscow’s insulating smog, winter lingers. Passengers on the train converse in tongues I strain to understand; they are babushkas in dark dresses and vivid headscarves, men in fur hats like hairy soufflés, students reading Tolstoy and Bulgakov. The air is thick with the smell of cabbage and stale sweat.

I sit in a cramped booth with two babushkas. One is Russian, gold-toothed with a pink scarf knotted under her chin. She doesn’t speak; her ice-blue eyes glitter with rawness. The other, a Ukrainian, has silver hair and introduces herself as Olga. "You’re going to Kiev alone?" she asks me. "You’re not afraid?" I shrug as out the window ditch fires streak by like scarlet ghosts.

When she sees I brought no dinner, Olga produces two homemade pastries and pushes them at me. "This one has salmon," she explains, "And this: chopped pig’s heart. Eat, eat!" I protest, but she won’t hear it. The pastries fill my mouth with the savor of dill, mince, and onions. I thank her, spasibo bolshoi, and regret having nothing to share in return.

At the border, Militsia board the train with leather-muzzled police dogs to stamp passports. As we wait, the pink-scarved babushka tells of her daughter, who once lived in America.

"Where is she now?" I ask.

"She’s dead." Her eyes are wet and empty. "She was a doctor, a very smart girl." And she turns away.

After the Militsia leave I fall asleep to the two babushkas whispering; Olga speaks of her brother who died, and in the dark they both begin to weep.

In the morning the Dnieper shines like battered pewter as we rumble across. Olga is already awake, gathering her things. She eats no breakfast, and I realize this is because she gave it to me last night—she didn’t save any for herself. I marvel that so much kindness can exist in one woman. "Very pleased to meet you," she smiles before we part ways.

"Very pleased," I reply as the gold church domes of Kiev rise blazing to meet us.